SLOANE

The Florida sun was a relentless, oppressive weight against the back of my neck as I hauled the heavy canvas bags from the trunk of my Audi A3 Sedan.

Forty-two years old, and I still insisted on carrying all the groceries in one trip—a stubborn streak that my husband, Jordan, always found endearing. Or at least, he did when he was actually home to see it.

Jordan was a Captain in the Navy, a man of iron discipline and even more right and rigid schedules. He had been stationed in the Pacific for the last four months, leaving me in our sprawling, quiet estate on the outskirts of Pensacola....